The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

is Guillaumette, but that is my serving name. My friends call me Mette.’

      ‘Then, if you permit it, I shall call you Mette.’

       12

      I stayed one more night at the House of the Vines and spent the daylight hours completing my business in the craft workshops of Cheapside. Fortunately the weather was kinder on our return journey and we arrived back at Windsor well before sunset, dry and contented. However, comfortable though it was, my chamber in the queen’s apartment felt dull and lonely after the cheerful bustle of the house in Tun Lane and when I presented myself in the queen’s solar after the evening meal, my welcome was disappointing. Deep in intimate conversation with the Duchess of Hainault, Catherine displayed little interest in my arrival and did not enquire whether my trip had been successful.

      When I made my curtsy at the door, ‘Goodness, Mette, have you returned already?’ was all she said, before resuming her tête-à-tête. For a moment I thought I heard her mother speaking and felt a jolt of dismay. She had addressed me in English and her broken accent reminded me of Queen Isabeau’s fractured French.

      Fortunately Agnes, Lady Joan and Joannas Belknap and Troutbeck greeted me enthusiastically, Joanna Coucy being the exception as I had come to expect, and I spent a pleasant hour describing the sights of London and the new styles and fabrics I had seen in the warehouses and workshops I had visited. None of them asked where I had lodged during my visit and so I did not tell them about the house in Tun Lane or the friendliness of its inhabitants. When Catherine showed signs of retiring, I hurried through to her bedchamber as usual only to find Eleanor Cobham already there preparing a herbal mixture in a pestle and heating a kettle of water over the fire. She smiled at me brightly.

      ‘There you are, Madame Lanière,’ she said impatiently, as if I were a junior lady-in-waiting reporting late for duty. ‘I am preparing a tisane for the queen. It is one that I have made for the duchess and it was she who recommended it as a night-time posset. Are their graces coming now?’

      ‘The queen is coming,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should hurry along to the duchess’s bedchamber.’

      ‘Oh no,’ Eleanor responded. ‘They will take the tisane together before they retire, but the queen’s new confessor will come to say the Angelus with them first.’

      I frowned. ‘A new confessor,’ I echoed. ‘Who is that?’

      ‘Maître Boyers.’ I noted a triumphant gleam in Eleanor’s eyes, doubtless sparked by the fact that she was able to tell me something pertaining to Catherine that I did not know. ‘The king appointed him to the queen’s household as a parting gift when he left for Winchester. Was it not a great kindness? He said the priest would bring the queen God’s comfort during her pregnancy.’

      ‘Has the king left for France already?’ I asked faintly, marvelling at how much had occurred during the four days I had been away.

      ‘No, he has gone to attend to business with Bishop Beaufort in Winchester and will return before he takes ship. The Duke of Gloucester is still at Windsor, however. Ah, here is Maître Jean.’

      A tall, thin tonsured man in the white habit and black cloak of a Dominican had entered the room and paused uncertainly on the threshold. ‘The queen told me to come to the oratory,’ he said apologetically. ‘She and the duchess are on their way.’

      ‘God’s greeting, Maître,’ I said, approaching the priest and making a small bob. ‘I am Guillaumette Lanière, the queen’s Keeper of Robes. Eleanor here tells me that you have been appointed her confessor. May I offer my congratulations?’

      Maître Boyers made me a small bow over clasped hands. His thin face and frame gave him an aesthetic look, but his smile was warm and friendly. ‘I have heard about you, Madame,’ he said. ‘The king tells me that you guard the queen’s physical well-being whilst I am to attend to the spiritual. Would that be a fair summary?’

      ‘I have served the queen with all my heart and soul for many years,’ I said. ‘But she certainly craves spiritual guidance from the right person. If the king has chosen you, you must be that person.’

      ‘As well as studying theology at Oxford, I am a member of the Dominican Priory of St John there, the Blackfriars. My lord, the king, thought that since her grace was educated by Dominican nuns in France, she might be receptive to spiritual guidance from one of our order.’

      I was about to remark on the king’s thoughtfulness when the door was thrown open to the swish of silken skirts. My knee touched the floor and I expected Catherine to raise and greet me as she usually did, but behind her came Jacqueline of Hainault and they both swept past me without a glance in order to acknowledge the priest. The three then immediately disappeared into the little oratory off the bedchamber and the door closed behind them.

      Still kneeling, I felt my stomach twist into a hard knot of distress and my mind flew back to when Catherine had returned to Paris after ten years of convent schooling and I mistook another young lady for her. Bonne of Armagnac had been the newly appointed and high-nosed mademoiselle whom I had wrongly assumed must be Catherine and her disdainful attitude towards me, a mere servant, had led me to believe that my beloved nursling had no memory of one who had loved her like a mother. The crippling sense of worthlessness which had assailed me then resurfaced at this moment with astonishing force, making me realise that Catherine still had an overwhelming power over my emotions.

      I got to my feet and saw that Eleanor Cobham was watching me closely, her lips curved in a half smile. She could not have failed to notice the tears in my eyes, but made no comment. I turned away and busied myself preparing the great bed for Catherine’s repose. As I smoothed the lavender-scented sheets and arranged the monogrammed pillows, my mind was a blur of bewilderment at Catherine’s apparent and sudden change of attitude. I thought I knew what, or rather who had caused it and I fretted over the possible consequences.